


Assistant Producer

by shambling



Category: British Comedy RPF, Would I Lie To You? RPF
Genre: Fade to Black, Gen, M/M, i am so out of practise, in which things are set in Edinburgh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2014-09-05
Packaged: 2018-02-16 05:53:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2258259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shambling/pseuds/shambling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first fanwork i've done in over a year, so i can only apologise if it's a bit shit. It's not been Betaed or anything, and it's barely got a title. Hopefully though it will entertain someone, and that will have made scribbling this at work worthwhile.</p><p> </p><p>In which Charlie and David meet in an unspecified year, after mobile phones became ubiquitous and GTA was released, but before the smoking ban came into place. </p><p>They talk. They eventually go to bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Assistant Producer

**Author's Note:**

> Similarities to persons living and dead are not intended to defame or libel, and this work will be removed if requested. It is intended as a loving work of fandom, and no money is being made.

It began, like many things, in Edinburgh.

“C’mon mate, I definitely had it in my bag I’m sure of it, I must’ve left it back in the flat, please let me in? Would I lie to you?”

The bouncer smiled sardonically, but stood impassive. “No, Mister…”  
“Brooker. Charlie Brooker.”  
“No, Mister Brooker. I’m sure you wouldn’t, but that doesn’t mean I believe you, or that I’m going to let you in.”

Charlie was about to turn away, to give up, when a hand landed on his shoulder, and a voice he half recognised was saying: “You’ve got to remember to bring your passes out at night Charlie, He’s with me Dan.”

And then the bouncer is melting away and Charlie is walking into the performers bar in company with strangers he knows well but who do not know him. And it is one of the stranger nights of his life.

“This is Lee, Rob and Robert, and Charlie?” His own name uttered with an upward inflection, Charlie nods. “Oh and I’m David.” Says the man, almost as an afterthought. I know. Charlie want’s to say. You’re David Bloody Mitchell, I love you sketches and I think you’re pretty great too. He doesn’t though. He shakes hands, offers to get a round in to say thanks and decides to play it by ear. 

They don’t immediately ask him to leave, and so Charlie joins them, sitting in the corner of Brookes and moving only to buy more drinks. They are very nice people. Robert is quiet and Lee is loud and Rob excuses himself earliest to get some sleep so that Charlie has no time to form much of an opinion of him.

He tries to speak little and listen as much as he can, whilst chain-smoking quietly, to give his hands and mouth something to do. He mostly manages it. As the evening wears on, becoming the early morning, he is aware that he is ranting quite volubly, but unable to stop. Almost as though he is sitting somewhere on his own shoulder, watching himself get drunk. Fortunately, the him on his shoulder sees, he is making them laugh, particularly with a spirited impression of Kate Copstick. 

And then it is 5, and they are being asked to drink up and get out, and they are staggering slightly, leaving via the fire escape into the pink of dawn. And David is saying firmly that he is definitely going to get Charlie a pass, with some nonsense role like “assistant producer” on it. And then they are getting kebabs and walking home over the meadows into the sunrise, and they are at Charlie’s door, and they are hugging good night and exchanging phone numbers and promising to do it again. And then Charlie is creeping into his flat, trying not to breathe too hard after climbing 5 flights of stairs. And then he is putting out a glass of water and two paracetamol on his bedside table. And then he is setting his alarm and getting into bed. And then he is lying in the dark whilst the room wheels around him thinking about what a strange and fun night it has been.

When he awakes the following morning, it all seems as though it were some strange and fanciful dream, but when he is out seeing shows to review, he drops into the Pleasance Courtyard, just in case. There, in the pigeon hole for Mitchell and Webb is a little yellow card, with a picture culled from the Internet of his face. Underneath it says: assistant producer. Or rather, it actually says “Ass Prod” because characters are limited. And if the gesture hadn’t made him smile enough, this is enough to make him laugh all day. 

He goes back to the bar that night, proudly showing off his little yellow pass to the doorman, and they are there again. In the same corner. He promises himself that they are not waiting for him, that he is only going over to thank David. That last night was a lovely, lovely night, but a one off. He is definitely not hoping that they will invite him to sit again, and definitely not over the moon when they do. He definitely doesn’t feel his heart beat just a little faster as he brushes David’s fingers when accepting a pint glass, and he definitely doesn’t offer him two’s up so that he can watch him pout. 

*

They fall into something of a routine, with Charlie denying to himself that he is, oddly attracted, to this man. With the emphasis on odd. Charlie is a man, he likes cars and girls and beer. Well. He likes playing GTA and lager and girls are okay, boobs are really pretty great but so are boys too sometimes. But he is strangely drawn to this man, this awkward, stifled, uptight man with an unfortunate hair cut who is slightly over weight and dresses not unlike a middle aged lesbian. 

When they talk, Charlie feels he holds it together really rather well, and a few nights he even pulls. Not David, sadly. But pretty boys and prettier girls, and David makes amused sardonic expressions and cheers him on. Charlie does not imagine that it is David he is having sex with. 

He certainly doesn’t spend the nights where he sleeps alone imagining it. Trying to see David’s face become flushed and sweaty, his hair in disarray, his lips wet with spit as he lowers his head to suck Charlie’s cock. It is a nice dream, a very nice dream. But just a dream none-the-less.

*

All too soon the month ends, and Charlie bids a last farewell on the corner of Potterow, to the doorman, to his new friends, to the Edinburgh sunrise. He gets a train home to his tiny north London flat and retreats to bed. 

*

He would like to pretend, when the text comes, that he looks arty. He would like to say he was reading Rimbaud on the sofa of his dingy little flat, dressed artfully and drinking black coffee, with a few days of stubble. 

He will never admit that he is actually lying on the sofa in his pants, playing games where he shoots people, surrounded by empty cans and tissues. The stubble however is real, and the black coffee. Although only because he can’t be bothered to go out and buy milk. Going out would involve putting on something more than pants. 

The text, though simple, galvanises him. 

Feels odd that we’ve not seen one another in over a week, want to assistant produce a pint with me? Best, David.

It makes Charlie smile that David feels the need to sign his texts off so formally, but it is also so very him. He leaps to action.

Or rather, he has another wank first. And then he leaps to action.

*

The flat is tidy and well stocked, just in case David somehow stays the night, Charlie is clean and washed and wearing his best pants as well. This is perhaps slightly undercut by the ageing tee-shirt and jeans he is wearing over it, but they make him feel good and are not too smart. This is not a date. As he so often reminds himself, half expecting to see the others there too as he enters the pub, but also hopes not to. Not that it wouldn’t be nice to see them, but it’s David he wants to see the most.

Perhaps he has wished so hard all day that a greater power has heard him, for there, alone, at a corner table is David. Two pints sit before him, a packet of cigarettes, a smile. For a few moments, Charlie is terrified that everything is different and how will it work here without shows to discuss and critics to lampoon? But he need not have worried. From the moment he sits it is as though they have not missed an hour. They rant, they put the world to rights, and kick each other under the table. 

All too soon it is 11, they are being kicked out, but not into an Edinburgh morning, but a London night, and it is too early, and it feels quite natural for Charlie to invite David round to his place, and they stay up, drinking, and talking, until it is almost light. And it is natural for Charlie to offer him to stay, and Charlie sleeps restlessly on the sofa.

*

And this becomes, over time, a habit. Until they start to skip the pub entirely, going to one another’s houses for dinner because this is cheaper. And then it becomes just coffee, and then lazy Sunday afternoons watching telly together, and they develop an easy intimacy that Charlie is sure he doesn’t see David have with anyone else. 

And then a year has passed and it’s Edinburgh again and Charlie receives another little yellow card that says Ass Prod, and it begins again. And however much Charlie tries to tell himself that he’s over it, that he’s very lucky to have David as a friend, he still imagines what he might look like in bed. 

He realises he’s lost the thread of the conversation, excuses himself to the toilet and goes to splash cold water on his face. He feels almost calm when he goes to exit, only to find David waiting in the corridor for him. He opens his mouth to ask why, but instead David speaks. “Oh for fucks sake.” And then he grabs Charlie, and pins him to the wall. And then he kisses him. Hard. And it is even better than Charlie imagined. And when David lets him go he can hardly breathe, so he settles for “fuck” instead.

And then David smirks, and hands him his coat, and leaves the bar. Charlie can only follow.

*

They walk, with measured pace, towards David’s flat. Neither speaking, both breathing harder than necessary. Rankeillor Street this time, closer, but still on the top floor, so that Charlie is embarrassingly out of breath by the time they reach the front door. David gives him no time to recover, pressing him into the corner hard and kissing away the rest of his breath, so that by the time they break for David to find the key, he is quite light headed. 

They stop, just inside the door, and David looks suddenly bashful. “Do you, want to, y’know?” Charlie internally thinks that David is an idiot, for not guessing this before, but nods fervently, unable to speak. 

He can hear David’s sharp intake of breath, and he breaths deeply too, waiting for the moment. David pounces. 

They kiss, furiously, hitting off door frames and furniture, shedding clothing as they stagger awkwardly to the bedroom like a 4-legged beast. And then all of a sudden they are there, and they are naked, and they are breathing heavily, and they pause. 

“Top or bottom?” Charlie whispers, not sure which answer he wants to hear more.

“Top.” David growls.

It is everything Charlie dreamed of, and more.


End file.
